Infatuation
by Cravatasaurus
Summary: There was something not quite right about being victorious this time. He was gone, true; they had suffered heavy casualties, true; the entire Wizarding World would be scarred for many a time to come, true... but despite that, something still seemed a little off. Full summary inside, title pending.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:**

There was something not quite right about being victorious this time. He was gone, true; they had suffered heavy casualties, true, they knew that; the entire Wizarding World would be scarred for many a time to come, true, of course... but despite that, something still seemed _off._

Hermione and Ron have a falling out, Harry becomes deathly ill, and all of their loved ones are once again scared out of their wits. Hermione uses this new opportunity to take it upon herself to jump back in time and fix what was broken, though she finds that, just perhaps, she actually had gotten in way over her head.

No character bashing.

_**Hey again guys! So… I know I haven't updated 'The Torn Picture,' but I had this crazy idea and I just really, really, wanted to start it. I've been in Harry Potter-mood the entire week (and a half) so I'm giving this fic-fandom a try. Give it a chance! I'm rather proud of it right now, actually. **_

_**It follows the entire canon timeline and is compatable with the entire ending. What? Look at the epilogue..?  
What epilogue? *rips out the pages because everything isn't ALL WELL* Nope, I don't see any epilogue. Meh heh heh... ebil laugh.  
Cookie if you get the reference ;)**_

_**This… I'm not planning on making it very fluffy. There's going to be heartbreak (but no character death… for once… I'm getting soft. NEED DEATH AND SADNESS). Hopefully you guys will like it! Positive feedback = quicker chapter updates.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its affiliates. I wish I did. I do, however, own the plot of this story (though I did get some ideas from other fics, but no copying at all. I promise. I branched from those ideas), and any emotions I pull from you lovely readers.**_

_**Oh, I do hope you like it so far! Shout-out to the wonderful author Nerys for inspiring me to write spunky :3 (Spunky? Spunkily? Spunkilikilizy. That sounds about right.) Enjoy, please.**_

_**I solemnly swear I am up to no good.**_

**_Chapter One: Rough Winds and Stormy Seas_**

_"Hermione..."_

_A warm breath flowed around her, encasing her, tickling the hairs at the back of her neck and freezing her muscles in place. The air entering and exiting her lungs hitched in fear as she felt a darkness circle her, slowly. Clenching and unclenching her fists, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying so very hard to block it out..._

Hermione Jean Granger woke with a gasp, bolting straight up into a sitting position, drenched in sweat and shivering. The room was dark, her bedroom blanketed in shadow. Chest heaving as she struggled to regain her breath, her eyes darted around her surroundings. The comforter and sheets were strewn willy-nilly on her side of the bed, bunched up and wrinkled by her ankles. A pillow was left laying lonely on the undoubtedly cold hardwood floor.

A slight snore alerted her to her partner's presence, his still, pale form standing out in the twilight. Her nerves calming as she gazed at his features, she lovingly brushed away a stray lock of fiery red hair from his peaceful, sleeping face. Ronald Weasley gave a small sigh in his dreams, but otherwise did not move.

Pulling her hand away and inhaling deeply, she slid back down the headboard into a supine position again. Her hair was a bushy, tangled mess as she lay, staring wide-eyed at the whimsical little muggle glow-in-the-dark stars that were littered across the ceiling. She stayed that way, lost in her reminisces of war, until a soft, mellow light began to mix with the shadows of the room, alerting the world of the coming of dawn.

* * *

Hermione sat at her desk by the window, her quill, ink, and parchment-paper book long forgotten as she stared into space. Ron was at work, an Auror in the Magical Law Enforcement division of the Ministry. She, herself, had no where to go but to her own writing.

Absentmindedly, she traced the scar letters that were carved into the skin down her left forearm, spelling out one, disgusting, hateful word: 'Mudblood.' The tissue around it was pink and puckered, never to be healed. She wasn't ashamed of being Muggleborn, ever, but... This scar caused a lot of controversy. Same with the long, straight gash that stood out on her pale neck, just across her windpipe.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione sat up straight again, stretching out her lungs, proving to herself she still could, before taking the slender hawk-feather quill and rolling it between her fingers. Brow furrowed, she began to write.

_16 July, 1999_

_It's been exactly one year, two months, one week, six days, 13 hours. I've been keeping count. Harry's scar doesn't hurt anymore, but... all of our hearts still do. Ron pretends not to feel the pain of Fred's loss - they all do - but it's still there, lying underneath everyone's falsely cheerful facades. Poor, dearest George has just started to come out of his depression; we've Angelina to thank for that. He's actually started to make Patronuses again. But he's, of course, not the same; not that any of us are. I still belive the pair of them were the glue that bound the Weasley family together, at least in the latest generation. Now all George has left of his other half are the prototypes for silly little inventions. Mrs. Weasley only just recently removed Fred's clock-hand from the enchanted grandfather in the sitting-room, so that they wouldn't have to see it resting firmly on 'dead' everytime they walked past the thing._

_Ron's not been doing well. He'll go to work everyday, sure, but when he comes home, it's... different. He doesn't like to talk to me anymore. I worry that... I may not be doing my part to try and keep him, well... content, at best. Is he displeased with my lack of labor at the moment? Should I go and work for the blasted ministry, despite that I don't even know what to do with that wretched place anymore? Fuck. I don't know._

_We've been living together for five months now, and still haven't moved any farther forward in a decent relationship._

_Harry, when I see him, still insists that he's just peachy keen, as always. He puts on a brave, winning smile and watches me through thick glasses with bright, round green eyes. I know he'll never be perfect, but usually I believe him when he says he's fine. He has Ginny now, after all... But I've found reason to doubt him as of late. He's gotten decisively thinner, if it was possible, even with Ginny's healthy cooking, and the orbs behind the rims of his spectacles are tired and haunted. Bags had formed in rings beneath his eyes with skin as gray as a ghost. Harry just looks... drained. All the time, physically and mentally. He looks like he did after his spontaneous Voldemort-visions, except he doesn't seem to be in pain._

_Pain or not, though, I worry. As practically his sister, I'm not falling for the 'Auror-case stress' crap that he blows it off to everyone else as, but I don't dare approach him about it yet._

_Ginny is doing just fine. She told me that they had been perhaps thinking of marriage, but Harry had yet to propose. I assured her that he would, given time. I know he loves her deeply, but I also know how nit-picky he can be about his space sometimes._

For a while, the brunette gazed around her study blankly, twirling the quill in the inkpot before continuing her journal with a new thought.

_I feel so alone on days like these. Everyone around me seems so hell-bent on moving on that they are forgetting how to live. They want to squish the war into the ground with the heel of their boot, and then run away._

Here, Hermione paused, feather pen hovering millimeters from the parchment, her thoughts filling up the space in the room that had once been filled with the calming scritch-scratch of the quill-tip upon the parchment.

_Perhaps I should talk to Malfoy again sometime. He's the only one right now who, I think, would understand my views._

_It's amazing, how much a person can change, especially under the pressure of pleasing the world. I should know, shouldn't I?_

* * *

"Oi, Potter!" A tall, bulky, cloaked Auror pompously strode down the marble Ministry hall toward him, as if he were superior to everyone else in the division and he owned the place.

Harry looked up wearily from his desk, where the name plaque read: Harry Potter, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Setting his quill down patiently as he gazed at one of his Aurors - a trick he had picked up from Dumbledore - he sighed softly, "Yes, McClaggen?"

The latter smirked as he reached where Harry sat, slipping a hand into the folds of his heavy robes to produce a thick, manila file. "Your weekly report, as promised," he sniggered, as if he found something amusing about the circumstances, before tossing the folder haphazardly upon the surface before the young, raven-haired Head Auror.

Harry blinked slowly, then reached out to pull the report closer to him. "Thank you," he stated shortly, his actions so automatic that he felt like he could be possessed. Or under the Imperious Curse. "You-" Suddenly, he cut off short as a hiss of pain escaped his lips, his left hand jerking upwards of its own accord to grasp his presently burning forehead. Unconsciously, he rubbed furiously at his formerly dormant scar, which was now searing hot and throbbing mercilessly. His head felt like it was being squeezed roughly through a wringer, and he gasped, grimacing. It felt like..._that_... again.

McClaggen had the decency to appear shocked and try to help. "P-Potter? Are you alright-?"

"Get Ron," he interjected weakly, feeling pressure on his chest as he could barely breathe._The... Darkness..._

The other Auror just stared at him dully.

"Ron Weasley, you dunce, get Auror Weasley over here!" Harry snapped waspishly as his already poor vision began to glaze over and white spots danced across his eyes, barely able to suppress a small grunt of agony as he tried to massage his temples.

The elder wizard visibly swallowed, as if determining the severity of the situation, before turning and sweeping away quickly.

With a groan, Harry slipped from his wheely office chair to the floor, on his knees. His body couldn't support his weight anymore, unable to bear the pains and steady weakening of his life-force. His core, his magical node, had been draining for weeks, maybe even months. He'd just put it aside as stress, even though he'd recognized that restricting aura that'd swirled around him instantly. Until now, of course.

He heard the rush of footsteps of Cormac McClaggen returning, with another person, as he hissed through his teeth again. "Harry?" he heard Ron ask tentatively. The tall ginger crouched beside him on the floor. "Mate, what..." He paused in disbelief as he noticed where the bespectacled young man was clutching. His blue eyes widened. "Bloody hell, Harry, I thought... You... Oh, bullocks, nevermind..." As carefully as he could, he helped Harry off the floor to trudge toward the fireplace only meters away. Taking hold of a fist-full of green Floo powder, he threw it down among the wood logs. "St. Mungo's!"

Harry gave a tiny, protesting 'mmrf' as he saw his office spin away, bits of the fine dust stinging his eyes as he clutched his head, until he was consumed in the cold green flame, before he was choked again by an -_the_- invisible force, and promptly blacked out.

* * *

Hermione woke with start, a small gasp pulled from her parted lips. Her already bushy brown hair was tangled and puffy, framing her face to make her actually appear like the lion she was. Stretching out her board-stiff muscles, she realized she had fallen asleep hunched over the mahogany desk with her arms crossed over her journal. A small spattering of white crusts from dried saliva decorated the right outer edge of her mouth unflatteringly.

Checking the muggle clock on the side-table, she found it to be one in the afternoon already._One year, two months, one week, six days, 15 hours..._She couldn't stop counting. It was an obsession. She found it kept the madness at bay.

But upon looking around the room, she felt a funny tug at her navel. Something about the atmosphere... just didn't feel right. Hermione couldn't tell if it was the gray, overcast clouds covering the sun, or the way the dark shadows stretched wispy tendrils across the wooden floorboards, or if it was a certain staleness in the air that surrounded her. Either way, an unsettling made her gut clench tightly.

As her eyes searched the room warily, her gaze was drawn to the open book on her desktop and landed on a single word. Her blood froze.

She recognized the feeling now. It had been the same pressurized feeling she had experienced in her fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh years for the same reason. She knew.

Harry.

* * *

_**Very short, I know. I just reread it and I was like, "Mehhh..."**_

_**But what do you think about it? Bother continuing? Please review! It helps a lot :)**_

_**By the way, in relation to Hermione's obsessive counting, it is set so that the Final Battle of Hogwarts started at 10 o'clock at night (since it doesn't give an exact time until it decribes midnight later), 2 May 1998. So, thus, Hermione's journal entry was written at 11 o'clock in the morning.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Yay, Chapter 2! I honestly can say I didn't expect to write it so quickly, hah. A bit of Ron's insight here; I tried to make everybody as in-character is possible. There will be more characters in the next one (including Draco), I promise! I was going to make it longer, but then I decided I liked it how it was.**_

_**Mighty Ruler of Gummi Bears-**__** My, what a nice name you have! (all the better to review you with). Thanks you! I do hope this isn't boring. It'll get better (and definitely more filled with one Tom Riddle... hee...)**_

_**I honestly feel bad about updating this in, what, three days, while it's been taking me a month or so to write the next chapter in 'The Torn Picture.' Please, check it out if you're into Phoenix Wright! (It gets better {and sadder}, promise!)**_

_**Wow, I am making a lot of promises. But I'm inclined to keep them - a rare show of the more Gryffindor side of my very Slytherin self, I suppose. I hope you like this chapter! Please review and all that nummy stuff, lovelies.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own anything! Everything belongs to J. K. Rowling and WB, except my original characters (unnamed male Healer and Healer Cadbury), as well as the promotional posters (Magical Mumps Vaccinations and Memory Loss Prevention Potions). I claim nothing else.**_

_**Cadbury's Conclusions (About Harry)**_

Knocking over the desk-chair in her haste to reach the front door of the flat, Hermione hardly even noticed that she still only wore the short, black miniskirt and tank-top that served as her pajamas. Wrenching the thick, black cloak from its rack by the egress, she shrugged it haphazardly onto her shoulders before making a grab for her wand.

Spinning into nothingness on the spot, her body compressed and her breathing restricted in the familiar side-effect of Apparition.

* * *

Nearly every single office at the Ministry had an unwelcoming feel. No one ever bothered to embellish their workplace; it was simply for utility purposes and thus had the chilling sameness that could be compared to all of the other areas in that place. Only one office that Hermione knew of had any sort of comfort in it; naturally, Harry's. Even serious issues seemed to be dulled down to the point of complacency and easiness when brought up in front the Head Auror.

Except now, of course. Gazing upon her surroundings, Hermione judged that it had the appearance of any other, excepting the framed, moving picture of Ginny in all of her red-haired, photogenic glory in the corner of the desk. It seemed just as cold, despite the comfortable, homey-looking brown chair and soft colors of wood, as if a source of warmth had been drained from the place. No doubt due to the severe lacking of any sort of kind, green-eyed wizard in it.

From the quill and open bottle of ink on the desk, it was clear that Harry had been in the middle of his work before being interrupted by… something.

Worrying her lower lip with her teeth, she tried to think of who would have seen Harry last. Who did he work with…?

Racking her memory while still chewing her lip, she leaned over his desk, taking a peek at the paperwork there. It was simply labeled, 'Weekly Report,' on the first page of the file. Now, hadn't Harry told her something about those reports? Something about being surprised about who was assigned to the record-keeping.

Nick Maggey? Mick Laggey? Mic… McClergy? McClaggen! _That right bastard…_

Anger bubbling to the surface – perhaps to hide her fear – she scowled and moodily flung the office door open to reach the division hall, stomping her way down the magic-polished tiled floor, glancing at the name plate on every office entryway until she found the right one, her very Muggle flip-flops slapping on the marble after her.

Making a very grand, dramatic, and hopefully scary entrance, she found an extremely flabbergasted Cormac McClaggen staring up at her from a mess of paperwork that could be nothing but his desk. "G-Granger!"

Before he could act, however, upon recognition or otherwise, she demanded, quite expressively, "Where's Harry?"

"Uh… excuse me..?"

Frowning more, with her brows beginning to furrow again, she repeated, with irate emphasis, "Harry! Harry Potter! Where is he?"

"He-he's out sick at the moment-"

"_Where?"_

The Auror visibly flinched back in his chair at the bushy-haired woman's dangerous tone and flashing eyes, not failing to notice her wand-hand twitch as if itching to hex his balls off. "I don't know! Weasley took him to St. Mungo's- some headache or something-"

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as soon as she heard the uttered words 'Weasley' and 'St. Mungo's.' Harry was safe, then. Not even waiting for the other wizard to say anything more, her petite body spun on-the-spot, giving her the feeling of being spun through a cone and then sucked up a straw made of the fabric of time.

* * *

The sterile whiteness that blanketed the walls was almost suffocating, repressing whatever was held within their capacity, the only things decorating the blank rooms being the bodies of whoever resided in them and the sickly-sweet, overly happy posters that promoted Magical Mumps Vaccines and Memory Loss Prevention Potions (_great resisting against the Obliviate spell!_). So far, the only sound in the vicinity was Harry's labored, ragged breathing as the raven-haired Auror lay on the padded cot in front of him.

Ron bit his lip, rocking back and forth, back and forth, on the visitor's chair in a failing effort to calm himself. He felt so utterly _useless, _merely watching as his best friend could be dying, and yet knowing that whatever affected him was in Harry's head, and his alone.

The pretty nurse girl had told him that a Healer would be in shortly. _It'd been five freaking minutes. _The speed of Ron's nervous rocking increased as he continued to watch the limp, pale, shivering form that embodied his friend. It was like a horror film that he couldn't look away from. Harry needed help _now_. He was halfway out of the plastic seat, convincing himself that he was going to get up, and go demand to see a Healer _right this instant_, when the blessed door opened of its own accord. With a sigh of relief, Ron sank back down as he noted the green male Healers' robes that swished commandingly into the room.

Ron stared at the slightly bulky man, scrutinizing him as the latter read the notes that the nurse had left on the account of the incident that Ron gave. For several minutes neither spoke, the Healer flipping pages that stated Harry's vitals, and Ron was beginning to let an unfriendly scowl cross his face – _could this idiot not __see__ the beads of sweat forming on Harry's brow ?_ Just as he was about to tell the other man to bugger off if he was going to continue being unhelpful, the green-robed man set the file down carefully on the side table and, faced away from Ron as he drew his wand to turn attentions to the patient, asked, "And you're certain, Mr. Weasley, that Mr. Potter just… collapsed? What specific symptoms did he display?"

Breathing deeply, telling himself to chill the hell out, Ron replied forcibly, "Yeah, he just… blacked out. When I first saw him, he was kneeling on the floor and holding his head like he was having a migraine."

"How did you know it _wasn't _a migraine?"

Reminding himself that this man wouldn't _know _about Harry's particular… phases, he clenched his teeth and ground out, "He was clutching his scar. He only does that when it's to do with… you know… You-Know-Who." Despite the Dark Wizard's demise, Ron still couldn't bring himself to break that habit of his to never speak his name.

"Who is dead."

_No shit._ "I know," Ron muttered, "which is why this is serious stuff."

"Did you see Mr. Potter ever… well, act strangely before now?"

"He's been… really tired lately, I know that. Hermione said he'd gotten thinner, too. He told us it was stress."

Choosing a thin syringe as his weapon of preference, the Healer stayed silent at Ron's last comment, and instead busied himself with the drawing of blood from Harry's brachial artery that stood out in the crook of his elbow. "I will be back," he informed Ron, making it sound like a warning. "Another Healer will assist you while I run tests on the magic balance in Mr. Potter's blood. From what you described, he sounds only like his node is exhausted." Added with another grand swirl of robes, the Healer – who still never gave Ron his name – left.

Sinking further into the chair, Ron buried his ginger head into his work-roughened hands. _Just magically exhausted, my arse, _he thought angrily, his eyes squinting up in a glower. _Harry's scar wouldn't be hurting from 'magical exhaustion.' Git._

It was another several minutes that felt like a lifetime of enduring the pitiful sound of Harry's harsh, unconscious breathing before there was any interlude, Ron's teeth set on edge as he could only sit, waiting. _Madame Pomfrey would have been done with this by now. Surely the St. Mungo's Healers aren't this incompetent to not know that Harry freaking Potter is having a medical emergency—_his inner rant was cut short by the soft squeak of the wooden door opening, a small step being taken into the room. _Finally. I was_—

"R-Ron?" inquired a familiar, timid female voice.

Surprised, the red-head looked up, his face molded into a question. "Hermione?" He blinked at the bushy-haired brunette, noticing she wore nothing but her sleeping-clothes and a black cloak. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to see Harry, obviously. What else?" Stepping into the white-washed room, she closed the door gently behind her. "What happened? Is… Is he okay..?"

"I don't know." He leaned back into the chair, placing his hands into his lap from where they had previously cradled his head. "I saw him on the floor of his office, clutching his scar… 'Mione," he started fearfully, his voice quivering freely now that he was with someone he trusted. "You… you don't suppose _he's_ back, do you? I mean… What if… What if we missed a horcrux or something-"

"Ron, don't be silly," she interrupted him, though he could see the beginnings of fear in her eyes, too. "There were only seven horcruxes. We destroyed them all." She swallowed and trained her large, dark eyes on the prone figure spread out like a specimen on the cot, reaching out her arm to brush away a couple of stray black strands of hair out of his face, before lovingly removing the off-kilter glasses that shielded his closed eyes. Folding them up, she laid them neatly on the side-table before daring to look at her boyfriend again.

"Why would his scar hurt, then?" Ron demanded.

"I… I don't know, Ron." Silently, her face expressionless, she padded over to lean her slim body against his seated one, sighing as they both fixed their eyes to the door, watching, waiting.

"How did you know to come?" he finally asked her, quietly, as if there was a sudden need to whisper.

"Woman's intuition," she replied thinly. "I Apparated to his office, and when he wasn't there, I pushed McClaggen into telling me where Harry was."

Ron coughed. "Mental, you are," he informed her, unabashed, though it was easy to tell that any amusement he attempted to convey was strained.

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to bestow upon him undoubtedly some sort of retort, both jumped simultaneously, startled, as from the door there suddenly burst forth, with much ado, a small, spritely-looking witch, her cheeks lit cheerfully with a friendly smile. "Good day!" she exclaimed, almost a little too happily for Ron's tastes, making her mid-length blonde hair bounce. When the couple didn't answer, the tiny Healer flushed, her gold-trimmed, earthy robes billowing around her ankles. "My name is Healer Cadbury," she continued, though in a softer, more modest tone, aware that the people in front of her didn't much care for eccentricities at the moment. Her watery blue eyes instead focused on her current patient, obviously trying her hardest not to appear too shocked. "And this is… Mr. Potter…" She swallowed stiffly, as if fearful to approach the unmoving war-hero, a complete turn-around of her earlier demeanor.

"How are the blood tests?" Hermione prompted, more to break the ice than anything.

Cadbury shook her head sadly. "Not well. The tests are completed yet, but so far it seems like the proper blood/magic ratio is… severely lacking. But…" The Healer cut herself off, tugging on a strand of fair hair, at a loss for words.

"But…?" Ron frowned, thick brows furrowing. _What else could there possibly be?_

The witch coughed. "The little magic we saw was…. It wasn't normal. I don't know if I'd called it _tainted, _per ce, but I don't think it's Mr. Potter's normal type. See, there's a sort of science to magic… No one's magic type is exactly the same, just like not one person's blood type is a total match. And… I'd say normally, this magic type doesn't look compatible with his blood type. Like it was forced." Blue eyes flickered between the people sitting in front of the Healer, assessing their reactions.

Ron and Hermione glanced at each other, quickly, before the brunette brought up the subject that had been hovering between the duo. "So… is it… _Dark_?"

The little blonde Healer didn't meet her intent gaze, instead choosing to look down as she pulled her springy wand from its sheath at her hip. "In essence… Yes. The concept of the foreign magic is Dark."

Ron's eyes were huge, his ginger eyebrows raised enough for them to nearly disappear into his hairline, and fearfully, he tried to clear his throat of the nervous little frog that had jumped there. It, of course, stayed where it was. He sent a wary look at Hermione, but she did not notice it. Her eyes were trained on Harry's limp, raggedly-breathing form, filled with equal measures of fear and fierce protectiveness.

Cadbury took a large breath. "But," she continued, with forced hopefulness, "that's just what we've gathered _so far._"

* * *

Physical tests were run; potions were shoved down his throat. And still, the young Healer couldn't get Harry to wake from his unconsciousness. Even _Renneverate_ failed to rouse the dark-haired wizard, and _that_… was just about impossible.

That was only the first of many difficulties. As the Healer ran her wand-tip down the region of Harry's chest cavity, investigating his magical node, she frowned deeply. Ron, observing, inquired anxiously, "What? What is it?"

Cadbury coughed in shock, looking at neither him nor Hermione. "His magical node… is being _drained_. As we speak. I've never seen anything like… this… But it's not just his magic, it's his _life_. There is something… _leeching_… off of Mr. Potter."

"Can't you separate them? Isolate the magic?" Hermione insisted. "I've read somewhere that-"

"Theoretically," the blonde Healer interrupted. "But it's… they're… bound too tightly. Do you… Do you know what I mean?"

The bushy-haired brunette made no response, and Ron only nodded dumbly.

Healer Cadbury shook her head, utterly bemused. "I'll have to see what the other Healers have to say. I'll… I'll try to research it if I can, but… this situation is complicated. But judging on my hunch that the others will be just as lost as I… I'm so terribly sorry-" –and here her blue eyes actually teared up in some form of remorse- "I'm so sorry… But based on how fast the node is being drained… I'd say Mr. Potter has less than a week to live."

* * *

_**So...? Is it okay..?**_

_**Review, please! Extra (brownie) points if you can tell me the reason why Harry is being drained of both life + magic... =D**_

_**Love you all. ~~ Tara**_

_**P.s. My 'underlining' button isn't working. Otherwise the title would be.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_OMG guys I'm soooo sorryyyy this took me so long. I was almost done when I stopped for like a week and a half. I have a huge book project to get done this summer, soo...  
I promise I won't abandon! It just takes me longer.. =/ I loose concentration easily if I'm not sure what to write. But I'm back on track now._**

**_I apologize, this is a bit of a filler chapter. I was going to add even more but I really just wanted to get this published. So it's not the greatest. Some Draco interaction though! I mention in ch. 1 about him, so it's implied that he and the Trio are more properly aquainted now. He's still not too fond of Harry, of course, and really still dislikes Ron, but besides her impure blood he really enjoys Hermione's company. Finally, some one who can keep up with him intellectually!_**

**_I dunno. It needed a bit of a back-story._**

**_Thank you so much for all of your reviews, guys, I really really appreciate it! My story's not too awfully popular, but it's okay as long as my readers enjoy it! (do I seem too enthusiastic right now? I'm high on sugar or something)_**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own anything Harry Potter-related at all. The only thing I own in this chapter is the plot, the bookstore, the old man, and any emotion or reaction that I pull from you, reader, at all._**

**_Enjoy!_**

Hermione stared blankly ahead, not even seeing the quite notably attractive nature surrounding her. The sun glared as it was setting nobly, reflecting scarlet light off of the water of the clear, deep lake, causing the witch to squint up her eyes. She didn't notice. Her consciousness was too far lost, reminiscing yesterday's events.

Harry wasn't dying. Harry _couldn't _be dying.

He's the Boy-Who-Lived, for God's sake!

He was Harry James Potter!

He was… He was her _brother._

A small sob found its way past her lips, the involuntary hiccup in her lungs causing her chin and lower lip to tremble slightly. Taking a deep breath, she forced all thought from her mind, and trapped herself with the numbers. Without realizing it, she murmured aloud, "One year, two months, two weeks, 19 hours… One year, two months, two weeks, 19 hours…" Softly, the words were caught up in the wind's embraces and carried away from Hermione's lips. As the breeze tickled her skin and ruffled her hair, she refilled her lungs, and released the air in a heavy sigh, staring down at the green grass-blades by her feet that glinted as they captured a ray of sunlight. Her surroundings were now totally embraced in a dying crimson light, and in an attempt to render her mind idle, she took to absently tracing the garish, ugly scarring that decorated her left arm, her thin fingers brushing lightly across the tiny hairs there, giving herself the prickling sensation of butterfly kisses.

_I'll visit the bookshop tomorrow,_ she finally reasoned with herself. _Hermione Granger won't be caught dead not doing her best to research cures for her best friend._ Even Flourish and Blott's had to have _something_ on Dark auras, or at least a bit of text on the sacrificial draining of magical nodes. Some sort of thing along those lines. _Harry will be fine. I will make sure of that. He'll be fine._

Nodding to herself, she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing while preparing to stand from the bench, the sun finally having set and leaving only an orange-streaked afterglow in the darkening sky above. _In… Out… In… Out…_ She didn't realize she was even still tracing her scars.

"You know, I really do apologize most sincerely for that," intoned a deep, silky voice from beside her right side, causing her to jump several inches in the opposite direction, the hairs on the nape of her neck standing upright in fear. Clutching at herself as goose-bumps bloomed across her skin, she peered up at the tall, cloaked figure that stood before her.

Familiar, stormy- gray eyes glinted back down at her, though surprisingly lacking in spiteful malice as they reflected the sky's last light, ash-blonde hair falling down into the way of his gaze. A small, almost miniscule smirk played around the edges of his thin, pale lips. Hermione frowned, brow furrowed, as a gleaming of recognition crossed her expression. She looked away from the newcomer, turning her attention back to the lake. "Hello, Malfoy."

"May I sit?" He indicated the space next to her. She gave a short nod of assent. He continued, "What are you doing out here in the Muggle world, all alone?"

She knew he was only being civil, but she risked a glance at him anyway, bemused. "I could ask you the same thing."

He didn't return her slightly confused look; instead, he stretched out his long legs in front of him, pupils dilating in the growing darkness. "I… come here to think."

She simply turned back to the scene before her, blinking, before staring down at her crossed palms. "This is my first time coming here. I… I also needed to, eh… _think_." She shifted. "I could always leave… if you want me to. You know, if this is a… personal place for you." She paused, waiting for his answer, tensing as she silently begged him not to make her leave. She rather felt quite comfortable sitting here, despite the fact that she had been preparing to Apparate away just minutes ago. She didn't know why she suddenly felt the urge to stay with the Slytherin.

When he made no tell-tale movement and uttered not one sound, she heaved a sigh and got to her feet, turning away, before she felt a gentle hand tug on her wrist. "No," the blonde insisted finally, an unrecognizable edge to his tone. "St-stay. Please." Once pleased by her rejoining him, he told her softly, "…Thanks, Granger."

She didn't speak, or even look at him.

He coughed. "I… I heard what happened to Potter, you know. I, ah, visited him today. I assume that's what you were thinking about."

"Why would _you_ visit Harry?" Hermione asked, avoiding Malfoy's latter statement. "I hadn't realized you two were even on speaking terms yet."

"Just because I'm not fond of him, Granger, doesn't mean I'm so lacking in compassion that I would ignore an ally when they're practically on their death-bed."

"Harry is _not_ dying!" she burst out, before realizing that she had and flushed red, glad that it was too dark out now to properly see. In a small voice, she added, "I-I'm going to find a way to save him…"

Draco Malfoy watched her with his stormy eyes, as if contemplating how to respond. After a while, he commented, "I heard his node was being drained." When she refused to respond, he advanced carefully, "When I… visited, they told me Potter had a week to live…" Still no answer from Hermione. "But, a Healer gave him a couple of weird potions while I was there. Some sort of Strengthening Solution, they said. So… he'll probably gain, oh, say… another three or four days? That would… that would give you more time to figure things out, right?"

At this, her brown doe-eyes eventually found their way to his gaze, melancholy and hope growing in them at the same time. "Malfoy," she started warily, "since you… dabbled in the Dark Arts a bit… do you think you might know about… this sort of situation?"

Somehow, the wizard managed to even scowl elegantly. "I don't know… what good I could possibly do here. I… I've never heard of a leeching Dark Aura. Honest," he insisted at her dubious expression.

"Well…" she sighed. "No matter, I suppose. I'm visiting the bookstores tomorrow, anyhow. There's got to be _something_ about auras."

"Granger," the Malfoy Heir prompted suddenly. "Do you mind if I… if I help you?" He glanced away, and lowered his voice. "I really would rather not see Potter expire."

She fought to hide a brilliant grin. She wouldn't ever admit it, but she rather liked this version of Malfoy. "Do you think your father might have something on these kinds of Dark Arts?"

The former shifted uncomfortably on the wooden Muggle bench, visage shadowed and impossible to make out in the blanketing eve. A spattering of early stars twinkled merrily in the sky above his head. "He might," he conceded. "Considering his… close affiliation with the Dark Lord, he might." He quirked a single blonde eyebrow. "I don't suppose you want me to check the libraries?"

She stared at him expectantly. "Yes, please. Anything at all will help." When he gave her a curt nod, she allowed a smile to break through and shine at him. "Thanks, Malfoy."

"Draco," he interjected.

For several seconds, she just observed his practically nonexistent facial expression with a furrowed brow. "Pardon?"

"Draco," he repeated shortly. "My name is Draco, and I'd prefer you addressing me as such, if you don't mind."

The witch openly gaped at the person seat adjacent to her. "Eh… okay. Sure." Anything wittier than that conveniently slipped her mind.

His thin lips visibly curled upward to show his pleasure, despite the current darkness enveloping them both at the time, and with a content sigh, leaned back once more to relax against the back-rest. For a while, they sat in silence, when finally, "Granger?"

Said brunette cleared her throat. "Yes, Draco?" His first name tasted weird on her tongue, foreign as it dripped heavily from her mouth. The wizard's surname would have slipped more easily from her lips, slick and slippery; not unlike the ferret family themselves. She tried to shake it off.

"Have you ever…. Have you ever felt like you're on top of the world, and then in a single day, all of that is pulled from underneath you, and you just feel so _alone,_ and you think you're falling forever?" He paused. "And afterwards… when you hit the ground… you wake up in Upside-Down World and realize that everything you ever knew about everybody… was wrong?" There was an unfamiliar hollowness to his tone, and Hermione didn't like it one bit.

Something inside of her heart melted, and she tentatively laid a hand on his arm. When he didn't refuse her touch, she continued, "Yes. I have." She bit her lip, unsure of what to say. "You know that."

The speechlessness that followed was nerve-wracking. Abruptly, the Slytherin stood, dislodging Hermione's hand, and he barely looked back at her over his shoulder. "Thanks, Granger," he murmured. "I'll see you later, won't I?" And upon that note, a loud _crack_ sounded through the air, making her flinch, and he Disapparated, leaving the witch to stare after a vanished form.

_One year, one month, two weeks, 20 hours…_

* * *

The loud, exciting bustle of mid-afternoon was almost claustrophobia-inducing, the alley busy with the bodies of such large crowds of magical folk. The noon sun was glinting brightly, and the sound of the wall of the Leaky Cauldron resealing itself went almost unheard over the hubbub the anxiously chattering people. Observing it now, this place looked like it could have gone nearly unchanged since her first year at Hogwarts. The only difference now was the closed, slightly run-down building that once was Forlean Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlor; and that was easily enough ignored by the population of wizards and witches filling Diagon Alley, who hadn't felt fear in over a year now. _One year, one month, two weeks, one day, 14 hours, to be exact,_ Hermione's mind automatically rectified, the numbers swirling around her head and creating a comforting sort of presence that she was used to now.

The brunette took a tentative step forward, not particularly eager to be suddenly jostled by so many moving bodies and tons of people carrying their purchased goods. But with another step, she found herself swallowed by the crowd, her feet instinctively remembering how the flow of this alley worked, leading her with no trouble at all to the front door of the shop she used to treasure so much. Pausing, she simply stared at it, soaking in the fact that she hadn't been here for nearly three years. She hadn't bought a book from here in… _three years._ And to think that she had formerly been a patron of this bookshop so often that the assistants knew her name, year at Hogwarts, her House… The wood that materialized the store was old and greying, only standing because of the magic that held it upright.

Just as she was about to push the door open, prepared for the olfactory assault consisting of the scent of parchment, old ink, and binding glue, a small white square caught her eye. A slip of parchment-paper was flagged to the door, held on by Spell-o-Tape on the inside, housing just one simple word: _Closed_.

She frowned at the rudimentary sign, brows furrowed and confused. Why would they be closed? It was only… only… _Thursday._ That's right; it was Thursday today, wasn't it? And June 17th isn't a holiday… As she continued to stare at the door, she felt her shoulders start to sag, her spirits plummeting to her gut. Well, what _now?_ She needed to research, ached for it, but there wasn't a Wizarding library that she knew of other than at Hogwarts, and she couldn't just very well waltz her way into the school, could she? Her frown now transforming into a scowl, she kicked agitatedly at the cobbled ground, earning strange looks from passing witches. Blinking, she gazed down the alley, as if searching for another book rendezvous, but knowing she'd find none.

A spot of shadow, visible through a gap in the crowds, caught her eye. Zeroing in on it, she noticed the bit of wall that followed after it, marked with a tiny, shoddy sign. Knockturn Alley. That was an idea… there was a bookshop in that alley, also, wasn't there? And what they had in stock would most definitely hold more information on the _Dark_ part of Harry's… predicament. For a couple of moments, Hermione simply stood, contemplatively chewing the flesh of her thumb, before making up her mind and steadily rejoining the flow of the bustle, stepping her way towards the small archway of an entrance to Knockturn.

Upon the decent down the first couple of steps that led there, however, the atmosphere grew considerably cooler, and looking ahead, she could find no trace of the former merry sunshine that had beamed just above Diagon. The cacophony had died down, also, but that was to be expected. Stumbling over the crooked, mismatched, unkempt cobblestones of the narrow street, Hermione wove her way through what little amount of people inhabited the small road, avoiding the almost predatory stares with which dirty wizards and haggard witches trained upon her. Unintelligible whispers followed her down the path. Her grip tightening on her wand in its sheath at her hip, she nearly ran into a rather desperate looking man, filthy and covered in the soot that seemed to permeate the air, standing with his face to the side of a run-down shop, pressing his cheek into the wood and sobbing uncontrollably, seeming to be telling the wall every one of his dark secrets. Eyebrows cinching together, she narrowly avoided him and continued to search for a bookshop – _any _bookshop – that might offer her a respite from this alien strangeness. She wasn't fond of crowds, but now she began to long for the lighthearted mobs that circulated through the streets of cheery Diagon. A shower was definitely in order after this trip.

A tattered overhang first caught her attention, then the freakishly tiny, nailed-on sign, on the verge of rotting to nothingness, which, on closer inspection on Hermione's part, read: _Lufkin and Clagg's Books (Slightly Battered)._

Worrying her lower lip with her teeth, she simply stared stupidly at the building for a little while, vaguely wondering if it was even safe. Catching this thought, she gave a small sigh and squared her shoulders bravely. _I'm a Gryffindor, dammit, and my wand is right here,_ she assured herself, fingering the smoothness that was the vine-wood, before exhaling in a huff. _It's just a bookstore, anyway, Hermione._ She shoved the door open.

The metal, creaking at its hinges, gave resounding squeals at varying intervals until there was a large enough gap between it and the door frame for Hermione to slip through. Rusty bells tinkled above her head, tied to the door with a frayed green ribbon.

What hit her first was the stench of the room. It hung heavy and thick, with more substance to it than in the alley; if she'd a knife – or a Slicing Charm, she supposed – she was sure she could have dissected it, layer by layer. Taking a breath, and instantly regretting it, she found the air carried the scent of rotting adhesive, ancient parchment – older parchment always seemed to take on a sort of sourness to it – and old printing-press ink. There was also a bitterness included in this blend, which could have been sweat. Dust visibly hung, suspended, in the meager, filtered light that entered through the miniscule windows, clogging the atmosphere around her and severely limiting her vision range. Shaking off the sense on constriction, she squinted into the shadowed room, trying to let her eyes adjust. Two rows of worn bookshelves ran on either side of her, laden from top to bottom with tomes. Peering ahead, she found a small reception desk; behind which sat an obscured, but humanoid, figure. It looked like a man. The witch cleared her throat. "E-excuse me?" She crept closer. "S-sir?"

There was a strange snort, and rumpling sound, followed by a wheezing cough. As she approached the elderly cloaked wizard on the stool, he gave her a toothless grin. In his younger years in may have been a calculating smile. "Hello, young Miss." He lurched forward suddenly, drawing a breathless gasp from the bushy-haired brunette and a step backwards. "Inquiring after a book?"

She just refrained from letting out a sigh of relief. "Yes, sir," she breathed, a little unsure. "Um… I was wondering if you'd, er, have anything in stock about… about _Dark auras_?"

"Hmm…" The little wizard scratched his rather magnificently wrinkled chin, beady eyes staring ahead at nothing. "Dark auras, you say, Miss? Hmm…" He pondered over it for a while, and, considering his evident age, Hermione began to fear he had somehow forgotten about her when he straightened with an "Ah!"

"W-what?"

"You're in luck, Miss," he concluded with a wink. "I do believe I have a manuscript or two around here on the effects of the nature of a wizard on their auras-"

"Sir?" she interrupted, when an idea flitted through her head.

He blinked. "Miss?"

"Do you think you might also have something… perhaps… on a leeching aura? Have you heard of those?"

He watched her shrewdly. "Auras… typically do not leech their own wizards or witches…" he stated carefully, dark eyes narrowed at her through the haze of dust.

Hermione swallowed. Oh, Merlin. "Can something… from a wizard – a piece of their own aura, say – attach itself to another wizard's aura, and change it? Contaminate the original… sequence? And thus cause leeching to occur," she concluded.

The reception desk groaned with the weight of the elder as he leaned on it thoughtfully. "…I may have one or two texts in the back room that would suit your specific needs…" he contemplated. "Of course, for such Dark magic, they _are _rather expensive, you know," he added slyly, doing his best to smirk even with his severe lack of teeth.

The witch shook her head, making her frizzy curls bounce. "I don't care about prices," she asserted sternly. "I only want the best you have."

The wizard's smirk grew. "Very well. I'll be… in the back room, searching. In the meantime…" He pointed a stubby, crooked, arthritis-ridden index finger in the direction of a bookshelf to her left. "Information about Dark auras and such are over there, if you'd care to take a look." And with that, he hopped from the stool – proving to Hermione that he was very short, as he only just came up to her shoulder; and that was saying something, for she was quite petite herself – and tottered farther into the suffocating dust and darkness, then turned a corner into which Hermione could only guess was the 'back room.'

* * *

As the bindings on most of these books were already falling off, she could not read the titles of any one of them. Frowning, she pulled a random book off the shelf, and blew dust off the cover; which did nothing except to kick up more particles to join its brethren as they floated languidly through the air.

It was a book about auras, at least; she cracked open its yellowed pages to look it over, and coughed, horrified. As she continued to stare, however, the corners of her mouth began to curve upwards, and she only just held back from snorting aloud. _Slightly _battered, her arse. She was lucky that the text itself was even mildly legible, its ink smeared from years of abuse and the stifling heat in this place.

With a shrug, she simply pulled out every book that seemed it could be even slightly useful and added it to her growing pile; every little bit helped, and besides – she was saving these books' lives by buying them.

Had she been at Flourish and Blott's, she would have stretched out upon the floor without a second thought, flipping through pages and making sure what she bought was _perfect._ But right now, she didn't much care – how expensive could these ratty, _tortured_ things be, anyway? – and she certainly wasn't trusting the looks of this splendid carpeting.

"Oh, Miss?"

Startled, Hermione tripped over her own feet, stumbling as she peered around the corner of the bookcase. The old wizard – probably the owner of the shop, now that she thought about it – had returned, setting down a pile of around six tomes onto the counter. "O-oh!" she exclaimed, and hurried to heft her own extraordinary stack – oh, Merlin, they were heavy – and join him.

Motioning with a grand sweep of his hand, he explained, "Everything I could find on the subject, right here. Feel free to look through them-"

"I'll take them all," she interrupted. She didn't want to miss any details.

"All of them?" He looked rather pleased with himself. She supposed this was probably the best sale he'd ever executed. He nodded, with a raised, disbelieving eyebrow, towards the books she held cradled in her arms. "And all of those, also, Miss?"

"Yes, of course," she sniped. Now that she'd gotten everything, she really would rather to just get out of here. The dusts that constantly tickled her nose were going to give her some disease at this point.

"Forty-eight Galleons," the wrinkled wizard proposed, bestowing a sharp stare.

Hermione didn't argue. There was no point, really. Instead, she gently placed her own chosen books on top of the thick tomes that had already been laid there, adding to the height of the pile. From her coat she withdrew her custom coin-purse, and carefully counted out the required amount of glittering, jingling golden coins. The old man stared at their magnificence as they lay motionless in Hermione's outstretched hand, almost salivating, before he snatched them from her. Tipping his wizard hat to her and showing off his very bald, pale head, he murmured, "Very nice doing business with you, Miss."

She stared at the books before her, quickly counting a total of twelve in all. Ooh, boy. They seemed to recreate the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the way that they were stacked precariously, just daring her to pick them up. After scowling slightly, and then realizing that she was still being watched, she quickly flicked her wrist so that her wand landed in her hand, and she performed a Shrinking spell. The books were unceremoniously shoved into the pockets of her robes, each now no larger than her palms and no thicker than her finger. She turned away, eager to remove herself from this shop and the dark alley and actually get a breath of fresh air. "Have a good day, sir."

* * *

_**Sorry if this is a bit short. I didn't want you to think I've abandoned it, when in reality I'm just a bit of a slow writer.**_

_**Please, pretty please review! **_

_**Some insight on our Harry in the next chapter. See you then-!**_

_**Tara**_

_**(p.s. I don't like these changes that made to updating stories while I was gone...)**_


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